


Now it's over I'm dead and I haven't done anything that I want (or I'm still alive and there's nothing I want to do)

by glitter_bitch



Series: The Stars Unaligned [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, But mostly angst, Cancer, Canonical Character Death, Cats, Childhood Trauma, Communication, Confrontations, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, M/M, Mary Keay's A+ Parenting, Michael's love language is words of affirmation, Panic Attacks, Rated M for Body Horror, Relationship Negotiation, Seizures, Sorry guys, The End, The Spiral, Threats, it's more sad stuff, off-camera violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitter_bitch/pseuds/glitter_bitch
Summary: Michael attempts to find solace as reality goes to pieces around it.Gerry isn't ready to let go, either.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley, Michael Shelley & The Distortion
Series: The Stars Unaligned [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716685
Comments: 52
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

It doesn’t know why it is still doing this. Why it is slipping through this particular door night after night. For all of the doors lining infinite, endless hallways, it seems only able to open this one, drawn to it like a fly to honey. The knob is magnetic to it’s grasping hand, always seeming to fit perfectly, despite its ever changing nature. It’s a mystery, enigmatic, puzzling.

That’s not entirely true. The Michael part of it has a faint idea what is happening, but the rest of it recoils at the  _ thought _ of attachment, much less the enacting of it. Names and knowing go hand in hand, and it was doing just fine before this, before  _ he _ was thrust upon it, thank you very much.

Michael sits on the couch, or at least curls in on itself somewhere near it, and watches the lump on the bed. Its body is at once too small, too knowable, and at the same time too big and too wrong. A child’s drawing made real, with no thought to feasibility. The parts of it that aren't Michael cry out in the kind of pain that only comes from having a name, from being known after so long in obscurity. Under its skin feels like a thousand needles constantly shifting.

The memories are wrong too, square pegs in round holes. They flit in and out in bits and pieces, and stab, prickly into its consciousness. At least they’re fractured. Mostly. The idea of  _ being _ is revolting. Its new skin crawls, quite literally, at the thought of remembering the experience with any coherence. Michael shudders and it feels good. If Michael doesn’t like it, it must be on the right track.

The figure in the bed stirs, drawing its attention back to its task once again, staring with spirograph eyes. 

Michael watches Gerry. Gerry pretends to sleep. This is the game they play now. It watches and he pretends. There is a sweet, sharp irony in it. Each knows what the other is doing, but neither will acknowledge it. Neither wants to. A lie of omission. Michael doesn’t like this, doesn’t like being ignored, but the rest of it relishes the feeling of being unknown. Closed eyes obfuscate the truth, and it loves nothing more.

Too soon, gray light filters in through thin curtains. Michael slips back into its hallway, almost missing Gerry’s sigh as he finally falls asleep. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... my hand slipped.
> 
> Title taken from "Dead" by They Might Be Giants


	2. Chapter 2

_ A memory. From when, it is hard to tell. Temporality is… fuzzy. _

\---

Gerry stands in the middle of their studio apartment holding a tuxedo cat. He holds it tenderly, in a way that would surprise Michael if he hadn’t been held himself in such a way by those same strong, scarred arms. The cat is small and streetworn, missing an eye and a chunk of an ear. Michael coos over it.

Gerry’s eyes are soft with sweetness, and Michael doesn’t know if it’s over the kitten or his reaction. The reason doesn't really matter; they're beautiful.

“Oh, Gerry,” he sighs, letting the tiny beast nuzzle her head into his hand. “You never told me you were a cat person.” 

Gerry grins. "Picked her up on the street. She followed me, I mean. Figured she's a stray, so I brought her home."

"She's perfect!" Michael says. He sneezes.

“Shit, are you allergic?” Gerry asks.

“Not enough to stop me from doing this,” Michael says, snatching the cat out of his boyfriend’s arms, proceeding to bury her in kisses. She wriggles out of his grip, landing lightly on her paws. Michael turns to Gerry, and crosses his arms, every bit the caricature of a stern housewife. “And don’t you even  _ think _ about trying to get rid of her Gerry Keay, or you will follow her out the door!”

Gerry raises his hands in joking surrender. “Alright, alright. You win.” 

Michael sits down on the rug, watching the cat explore her new home. Gerry flops down next to him. “You know we’re not supposed to have animals in here.”

“We’re not supposed to smoke in here either, but that’s never stopped you. Besides, the landlords are too scared of my big, tough boyfriend to say anything.”

Gerry kisses him, quick and soft, smudging his dark lipstick. “Happy to help.”

The cat claws at the leg of the second-hand coffee table, scratching up the wood. Michael pulls her back, and she mewls in protest. “What should we name her?” he asks, stroking her absently.

“I was thinking Mary.”

Michael freezes. “Mary?”

“Yeah. Mary Shelley? Like the author. Inventor of science fiction and goth icon? C’mon babe, you’re the one with the degree in library science.”

Michael’s shoulders relax. “Oh I thought you meant like your…” he realizes this is a thought best left unsaid before it's out of his mouth, but it’s too late now. “Like your mother,” he finishes lamely.

Gerry’s expression darkens. “What? No.  _ Fuck _ no.” The silence stretches and turns sharp.

“I… I’m sorry, Gerry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No. No you’re fine,” Gerry says a little too quickly. “I get why that would be your first thought.”

Michael rests a hand on his bicep. It’s tense. “We don’t have to name her Mary. We can pick something else.”

“She doesn’t own the damn name, Michael!” Gerry snaps, jerking his arm back. He draws his legs up to his chest. “She doesn’t own me anymore,” he mutters into his jeans.

Mary slips out of Michael’s lap, disturbed by the movement, and runs off to explore the kitchen. Michael knows he’s messed up. He just wishes he knew what to do to fix it.

Gerry’s face is hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. Michael shuffles around behind, and wraps his arms around him. He rests his head on his shoulder, hoping it offers some security.

“I’m sorry I brought it up, Gerry, I really am. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have- chu!” his apology is interrupted by another sneeze.

Gerry lets out a small laugh, and Michael feels a flood of relief. There’s hope. He brushes Gerry’s hair back behind his ear, and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I’m here if you want to talk about it. About anything. Ever.”

Gerry lifts his head. His eyeliner is smeared, but his eyes are dry. He takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t yell at you like that. And I shouldn’t close myself off, either, I just…” He lets out a tight, angry breath. “I thought I was over this.”

Michael frowns. “Don’t apologize. I may not know specifics, but I do know that this isn’t the kind of thing you can just get over. You’re allowed to feel things, Gerry. You’re allowed to be angry.”

“I know, I know. Not at you, though. And no amount of knowing  _ anything _ is gonna make me feel like any less of a burden for dumping all this shit on you.”

Michael runs his fingers through dyed hair. “You’re not a burden, Gerry.” Doubt flickers across Gerry’s face. 

“And if I can’t convince you otherwise,” Michael continues, “know that I’m more than happy to bear it.” He kisses him again, this time on the lips, and Gerry relaxes into him. “I  _ want  _ to bear it.”

“God… what did I do to deserve you?” Gerry murmurs against his mouth, and Michael aches inside, knowing that Gerry, his perfect, selfless Gerry, doesn’t think he deserves anything when he deserves  _ so much _ .

They sit there for a while, tangled together and swapping kisses. The silence gradually turns into something warm and safe. Eventually, Michael breaks it. “Do you want to move to the couch? It might be more comfortable. I’d carry you there, but-”

Gerry laughs. “With those toothpicks?”

Michael flexes and smiles. “You’d think years of lugging around textbooks and boxes of files would do something for my physique. Academia’s a scam, I tell you!”

They stand, and Gerry links his fingers with Michael’s, filling the negative space between them. They settle themselves into the couch, leaning into one another. 

“Michael?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Thank you. I’m not ready to talk about it tonight. I don’t know if I’ll ever really be ready to talk about it, but thank you.”

Michael brings Gerry’s knuckles to his face and brushes them against his lips. Mary wanders back into sight, jumping cautiously onto the armrest.

“I’ll be here as long as it takes.”

\---

_ Mary disappears shortly after Michael does, slips out the door or through the open window and down the fire escape when Gerry’s back is turned. Once again, the too-big apartment gets a little bit bigger. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> downside of finals week: I don't have a ton of time to write so I have to be choosy about what I do write and how often I can publish
> 
> upside of finals week: I don't have time to write every little thing that tickles my fancy, so I end up with quality stuff that people might actually want to read instead of tits-deep in some ungodly lonelyeyes kiss me kate au
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Some time has passed. The amount doesn’t matter. What matters is the folded piece of paper Michael holds carefully between two fingers as though one false move will destroy it. It had found the thing lying at the foot of its door this morning, apparently slipped under at some point during the night. Michael didn’t know that could be done.

It unfolds the note slowly, like it is defusing a bomb. The loose leaf paper crinkles and the sound bounces off of the walls and high ceilings in echoes and ripples. It unfolds it one, two, three times, and finally, lays it open and smooths it out. All four words stand, obstinate, against the white paper and blue lines in thick, black ink.

_We need to talk._

Michael’s heart flutters from somewhere within its body (it’s not sure where anymore), and it traces the scratchy handwriting with a fingertip. Careful, so careful- it mustn't tear it. Gerry wants to talk. The part that isn’t Michael grumbles, but Michael tamps it down. It will not allow this to be ruined.

\---

That night when the door swings open, the usually-darkened apartment is not darkened. The bed is empty, and Gerry is sitting on the couch, clutching an old, striped scarf. Michael smiles wide, and does its best to ignore the discomfort on his face.

There is a silence, as the door closes tight behind it, then “Hi,” from across the room.

“Hello, Gerry,” Michael says. “It’s been a while. Or maybe it hasn’t. I can’t really tell.” It laughs.

Gerry shakes his head. “No, you’re right. It’s been… a while.”

“May I sit?” asks Michael after another pause, and it hates this forced formality, when all it wants is to take Gerry in its arms and tell him how much it loves him until he breaks down and believes. Gerry nods, and wraps the scarf around his hand, methodically, mechanically. It sits across from him, folding itself in a way that is nearly comprehensible. The single cushion between them might as well be all the space in the universe.

“I wanted to see you again,” Gerry says, at the same time as Michael’s “What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh,” Michael says. “I wanted to see you, too. Really see you. Not just watch you, like I have been doing.”

“I know,” Gerry says, and his voice catches. “I know you sit there every night, and at first it was horrible, but it just keeps getting worse because I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still in there and I can’t do anything about it. I just let him go out there with Gertrude, and I _should_ have known better, but I let him go anyway, and I should have… I should have stopped him.” The tears well up in his eyes, and it knows he is fighting to keep them from spilling over. The scarf is scrunched up tight in his fist.

“You didn’t know any better, Gerry,” Michael says, “This isn’t your fault.”

“ _You_ can’t forgive me,” Gerry says. “ _You’re_ not the Michael I knew,” and the hurt surges through Michael because it knows on some level he is right. It is _not_ the same Michael, not now that it is mixed with so much more and else and other.

And then without warning, Gerry is across the couch, and crawling on top of it, and mashing his mouth against its, violently, ferociously, and Michael wants to draw him close, but it can feel the part of it that isn’t Michael surging forth, and threatening to spill over, so it doesn’t. Gerry is breathing in short, fast gasps, and Michael knows that kissing it must feel like kissing knives and gravel and broken glass, but it doesn’t want him to stop, either. So it lets Gerry continue to hurt himself, to hurl himself against the cliffs. Finally and all too soon, he breaks, pulls back, forehead shiny with sweat, breath ragged, and body shaking, still holding Michael’s face between his palms.

“If my angel is still in there, I’m going to find him,” he promises, “And you’d better keep coming back until I do because if you disappear on me now I’m going to do everything in my power to hunt you down and make your existence a living hell. Do you understand me?”

Michael nods, mute and smiling, full of joy and fear.

Gerry stares into its eyes a moment longer, searching for something, and then, “Get out.”

So Michael leaves, giddy and light as sea foam, panic clawing from somewhere within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last five paragraphs of this chapter contain fairly intense descriptions of body horror and gore. My first priority is everyone's safety, so please do not read past the dividing '---' if these topics are concerning or triggering for you. Thank you for reading! Stay safe, and enjoy!

A spiral is reliant on presence and absence. It can get confusing determining which is which, dizzying even, but without both, there is no spiral. What is there and what is not twine together just so to create it, like the meshing teeth of gears, like fingers locking. 

A door operates on the same principle. That thin separation from what is and is not. 

Out of one’s sight, out of one’s mind.

The part of it that was Distortion had yielded. It had lowered itself to be named, to be known. A chessmaster’s sacrifice- it would win soon enough. The part that called itself Michael was fraying more with each passing day, and this concession to identity would not slow the decay in any meaningful way. Michael would never again be ‘real’, never again be what is there or the presence, not in the way he had been. Not in the way that Gerry is.

Interacting like this is painful, for the both of them. Michael can see it in Gerry’s eyes every time they touch, though he tries to conceal it. (For whose sake though, is anyone’s guess). The Distortion reels away from the very sensation that Michael craves, and it tears at him and his being. The desperate clinging to touch, to awareness is the same reminder of a despised physical form. Michael knows that he will pay for this later, in a neverending hotel hallway lined with mirrors that reflect the thing he has become as the Distortion desperately pulls him apart over and over and over again. 

It’s getting harder to pull himself back together.

Consequences and futures be damned. All Michael cares about is the now. This now with Gerry pressed close against him with only the occasional hiss of pain. Michael hates this, hates how he cannot even hold the man he loves without harming him, hates the flashes of fear that cross his eyes whenever he smiles too wide, whenever something bends wrong, whenever his hair doesn’t fall quite right. Those constant little reminders that he is not what he once was.

_It_ , hisses the Distortion, _It!_

Unnecessary humanity will not be tolerated. Michael absentmindedly wonders how long it has spent in outdated patterns of thought.

The musings are interrupted by Gerry’s quiet “Ah!” and Michael lets go immediately. It had lost focus again, become too sharp to bear. Its Gerry is so patient, so devoted, would suffer all in silence if he could. The guilt tears Michael apart more thoroughly than any funhouse mirror could.

Michael lifts itself and walks to the door, a cheery dandelion yellow that stands out garishly against the nicotine-stained walls of the apartment. “I’m sorry, angel,” Gerry says from behind.

Michael cocks its head to the side, more of a loll, actually. “You say that as though it is your fault,” it says, smiling.

Gerry looks pale in the moonlight shining through the window. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” he promises.

Michael pauses, nods. Then steps over the threshold.

\---

The punishment is exquisite. Long strands of cells yanked out and shuffled back in no particular order. DNA shaken like marbles in a bag. The combining and separating of organs, of limbs. It is agony. Or it would be if pain had any place within cool, calculated deception. The Distortion is not pleased, so Michael will suffer the consequences. And suffer it does.

Michael sees itself rearranged, repositioned, reorganized again, the many mirrors taunting it with nightmarish, cubist visions of multiplicity. Here, tomorrow is meaningless. There is only the blinding eternity of the now.

It opens its mouth to scream as every strand of hair on its body is plucked out, but no sound issues forth. The locks writhe like a nest of vipers worming themselves back in however they see fit. Every joint in its body cracks simultaneously and bile and blood flow from its mouth as stomach and liver and kidneys and lungs twist and twine in ungodly formation. If its tongue hadn’t already squirmed away it would have been bitten off.

Michael sees the whole thing in the mirrored ceiling, sees how it lies in a puddle of itself, a tangled mess of never-quite-almost wrong-right. Invisible fingers pull at the corners of its mouth, tug and stretch it into a hideous grin. 

The vision is so ghoulish. It can't help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Gerry is sick. He has been for a while now. He is sick with some horrid invader, and Michael trembles with rage. Nothing is allowed to hurt its Gerry. Not Ms. Robinson, not the Distortion, and certainly not a miserable,  _ pathetic _ little tumor.

It wants so badly to take Gerry into its hallways and gently unravel his pretty little skull into ribbons and curls, the way it is oh so familiar with now. To undo him completely and pluck out the intruder with delicate, scalpel-sharp fingers before putting him all back together again, right as rain, whole and healthy. But Gerry would never allow it, and Michael cannot bring itself to force him.

So instead it stays and watches as Gerry grows thinner and paler and more gaunt with each passing day. He rarely eats. He even more rarely sleeps. The bones show through his flesh where his clothing doesn’t cover. Amidst it's worry, Michael feels a strange kinship. They are wrong together in the same ways.

For the first time that Michael has seen, Gerry is frail. He allows himself to be held, to be encompassed by Michael, ignoring the buzzing, stinging static that comes with its touch.

Michael does its best to reign in the Distortion and provide comfort. After all, it reasons, aren’t most lies for comfort’s sake? Couldn’t this be its purpose? And so the Distortion concedes once again, and Michael can be himself.

“I miss you,” Gerry says from within his arms, head resting on his chest. “I know it’s selfish- we’ve come so far. But I miss you. The old you.”

Michael strokes his hair. “You have the right,” he says after a silence. He kisses the top of his head so gently he’s not sure if he even feels it. “If there’s one person who deserves to be selfish, it’s you, dear.”

Gerry nestles closer, and Michael holds him tighter. There is so little to say these days.


	6. Chapter 6

Michael can’t bear to watch Gerry in the real world. It can’t bear to see him get burned and scraped and bruised and broken, because it knows that observance is all the Distortion will allow. It knows that Gerry will never come a-knocking, tap-tap-tapping, never ask to be let in, so there is ultimately no use in this silly little obsession. Michael’s stubborness is merely a bump in a long and twisting road. So Michael hides in the refuge of labyrinthian passages, and waits for Gerry to come home. When the seizure happens, it is unaware.

Michael doesn’t know how long it takes it to notice that Gerry has been gone for far too long. Time is meaningless to the Distortion, and Michael has so few ties to the real world. But Gerry has been gone, and whether for weeks or months is anyone’s guess. Michael prays that it has not been years.

It tears apart the apartment first. It is not expecting to find Gerry in the stuffing of the couch cushions or behind the peeling wallpaper, but a thing in distress cannot be made to see reason, especially when its purpose is the precise opposite. So it slices through furniture and carpet and drapes with bladed hands and leaves everything shredded in its wake.

The Institute should be next, but Michael doesn’t  _ want _ it to be, doesn’t want to walk those familiar halls without its Gerry, doesn’t want to risk seeing  _ her _ . So it wanders the streets of London instead, spending long nights with its saffron door stark against dingy alleyways where he used to burn books. Still, the search turns up nothing, and Michael finally gives in.

\---

It is late when it opens its door, deep within the catacombs beneath that wretched red-brick building. Down here there is no facade, no distinguishment, no lies as to what is truly contained within these unhallowed halls.

It giggles as it pushes itself out of the trapdoor and strolls languidly through the archives, trailing long fingers through thick layers of dust on high shelves. Out of the three of them, who would have guessed that Ms. Robinson would be the one left alive?

It finds her easily. To her credit, she isn’t hiding. Ms. Robinson would never stoop to that. She is also entirely unsurprised to see it.

“It took you long enough, Michael,” she says, eyes barely wavering from whatever statement she is currently reading. “I must say, I’m almost disappointed in the delay. You used to be such a resourceful boy.”

“I’m not here for you,” Michael says cheerfully, dangerously, sharply. “What have you done with Gerry?”

Ms. Robinson folds her reading glasses and sets them carefully on the desk. “I haven’t done anything with him. What happened to Gerard was… unfortunate, but it’s hardly my fault.”

“What have you done with my Gerry?”

“Really, Michael,” she says, and she’s as stern and condescending as ever. “It was genetic. There was nothing I could have done.”

And Michael wants to scream at her, tell her there’s a thousand things she could have done, should have done, but the Distortion billows up inside of it, taking advantage of this emotion, filling the vulnerability with a twisted glee. Laughter bubbles out of its throat like water from the tap. Its hands go sharp and large and its mouth warps into that stretching grin so familiar and so alien. It steps toward Gertude on long, thin legs.

To her credit, what little fear she has is brief. To her credit, to her credit. One cannot lie to deceit itself.

It leaves her alive, but barely. The Distortion knows better than to anger the Everwatcher in its own domain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Fractals. Splinters. Selves upon selves upon mirrors upon selves. The same face, different features, or perhaps the other way around. Chameleon eyes. Multiplying teeth. Elastic skin. Long, curling fingers beckon many. 

A victim, every now and then. Someone foolish enough to knock on the door, foolish enough to enter into the writhing hallway with its countless corridors and paintings and mirrors and selves, foolish enough to become one of many prisoners begging for release as reality slowly loosens around them.

Time passes. Gertrude passes. Violently. As expected. The Distortion feels a pang of Michael, something akin to grief or envy. (Are the two really all that different?)

It looks in on the new faces cycling in and out of the Institute when it cares enough to remember. A few belong to it, most don’t. 

It visits Sasha once or twice, that nice girl who used to work in Artifact Storage. She doesn’t recognize it. The Distortion preens and gloats.

Every now and then Michael will rear its head, pushing from within against the despair, and the Distortion will find itself wandering around London, peering into bars, into alleyways and bookshops, rummage sales and antiques auctions, looking for a glimpse of a memory. But Gerry is long gone, somewhere where Michael cannot follow, no matter how badly it wishes to. The End will not welcome it, not like this. So Michael sinks back down into the soupy confusion, and marinates in the lies it tells itself and allows its all-wrong body to be used as bait and lure to anyone stupid enough to trust.

The new Archivist is soft, though anyone would appear to be so after Gertrude. The Distortion takes pleasure in watching him squirm, until it doesn’t. Until it's no longer fun. And when he brings up Michael, Michael Shelley, what he used to be, it feels a little anger, and thinks that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , it would like to kill this new Archivist, to make him suffer the way Gertrude deserved but never did, and the anger pounds over it in waves until it doesn’t and Michael is being ripped apart once again, but this time by a short real-estate agent in a purple blazer who just happened to find the right door at the wrong time, and oh dear, everything really is dreadfully unfair, isn’t it?

Michael feels himself and the Distortion being pulled apart like wet gum, sticking to each other until the holes turn too big to hold the thin, billowy web together. He can hear himself screaming, feel the Distortion’s agony as it is forced into another body, another decade of subjection to plot and plan. Colors flash in dizzying patterns, looping and checkerboarding, and then…

\---

Nothing. All is white. No, that’s not quite true, there are faint shades in the hills surrounding him. He takes a breath, and the cold air hurts his lungs. Snow flitters down around him, aimless. He begins to walk.

He slips his hands into the pockets of his peacoat as he goes, getting readjusted to this familiar old body. It’s nice to have hands that fit in pockets again. The breeze is biting, but it feels more real than anything he’s felt in a long time, and Michael basks in it.

“This is the second time I’ve died,” he announces to the empty landscape, “and quite frankly, I’m enjoying it much more this time around.” For where else could this be except The End itself? It looks familiar, but it can’t be. Sannikov Land was never  _ real _ anyway, and here is far too calm to bring up anything but a faint remembrance.

In the distance, a shadow separates itself from one of the mounds of snow, a vaguely human silhouette against an endless white backdrop. Michael doesn’t turn to run, nor does he speed up. He just continues at his leisurely pace, scuffing his shoes in the drifts, and sending up flurries of flakes into the air. He stretches his fingers, relishing how they are all soft edges once again. The shadowy figure draws closer. Michael stops stalling, waves a greeting from what is almost certainly too far away.

“Hello, there!”

The figure continues forward until there is hardly any space between them.

“Apologies for the delay,” it says, “You are a hard person to find, Mr. Shelley.”

“So this is it,” Michael says, and it is not a question.

“Yes. Unless you feel the need to contest.”

Michael considers the offer. “I don’t think I do. I’ve had enough fighting to last me a lifetime.”

The figure has no face, just a shadowy void, but Michael imagines it smiling at the joke.

“Then you have nothing left to say?”

“‘Fraid not. Sorry.” Michael moves to wrap his scarf around his face, but grabs at empty air. His scarf is missing. One clear memory bursts forth out of the haze. “Wait! Actually I do have one question.”

The figure waits in silence.

“When do I get to see Gerry again?”

There is a long pause. Michael hopes he hasn’t messed anything up. Finally the figure speaks. “Gerard Keay is not with us.”

Michael furrows his brow. “No. No, you’re wrong. Gerry’s dead, and now I’m dead too, and you can’t just keep us apart like this. It isn’t fair.”

“Gerard Keay is not with us,” the figure repeats.

“So he’s alive?”

The figure shakes its head. “Not alive. But not at the end of his journey yet, either.”

Michael’s stomach drops. He knew this was too easy, too good to be true. His eyes well up, and the tears freeze as they roll down his cheeks, but he doesn’t notice the sting. He sits down hard on the frigid ground.

“Then if it’s all the same to you,” he says, voice thick with longsuffering despair, “I think I would like to wait for him here, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> Part three is in the works, and I promise that it gets happier!


End file.
